The Drover Tells His Story
by RooC
Summary: Set before the movie Austrialia - How the man called The Drover came to be. *Contains some spoilers for the movie, but if you haven't seen it, you're probably not reading this anyway.*
1. Chapter 1

**The Drover Tells His Story**

**by Roo**

The Aboriginal peoples of Australia believe that the only thing you ever really own is your story.

This here is mine.

Born in Australia in the late part of last century, I was as new and as raw as the country itself. Australia was soon declared a Commonwealth and we as a people had something to prove – which was another thing that the country and I had in common.

I was the second surviving McNeil child. My brother Archie came four years before me and Mum had lost a few in between. Baby Kim came about a year and a half after me and was the last of us.

Much like our Dad, we McNeil boys were a headstrong breed. Our home was located on Arnhem land and anytime we weren't nailed down we were slipping off to play with the children of the local tribe. It was from them that we learnt to live with and love the wild land around the home my folks had carved in the wilds of the outback - a cattle station that bore the unlikely name "Dreamingtime Station" in deference to the beliefs of our tribal neighbours.

I remember Mum teaching us lessons each day; basic reading, maths and the history of Britain. I wasn't keen on much of what books had to offer. There were greater adventures and more to learn out in the real world than I could ever find in a book. The larrikin of my family, I was always restless, larking about when there were chores to be done, staring out the window when I should have been studying or just plain getting into mischief the way boys often do.

Worse yet were Sundays when we had to wear the stiff shoes we'd blacked and polished the night before and shirts buttoned high up onto our tender necks. Scrubbed 'til our skin was pink, we were forced to stand up straight and sing church songs then listen as Dad read from the big heavy Bible with our family history carefully inked inside the cover. We felt certain we suffered greater pains than even Jesus had borne on the cross. It rubbed us all the more raw that our mates, dressed in everyday clothes, spent time at the feet of their grandfathers who taught them stories and songs of the land and the customs of their people in place of the dull hymns and psalms that we had to learn.

What a relief to follow in Archie's footsteps and be put to work full time on the station in my tenth year. Poor Kim suffered Mum's dull schooling for another year, eyeing us jealously as we saddled up and rode out into the dawn.

Life in the saddle was the life for me and once my father realised I had a way with horses, he had Barrega, one of the tribal stockmen, start teaching me how to muster and break brumbies.

Father was the big dreamer while Mum was the one who kept us kids in line. Where he gave us the freedom to reach beyond ourselves, she gave us the tenacity to finish the job.

Despite his easy nature, my father challenged us often, spurring us on when we faltered through a combination of tough love and strong leadership. He was "Da" to us at home and "Sir" in the saddle. With his keen sense of right and wrong, he could also be a harsh disciplinarian and we pushed ourselves to live up to his vision of us, to be the men he believed we could be. Failure was never an option.

I was living every boy's dream – whole seasons spent at the out-station or in the saddle working alongside my father and the other hired stockmen followed by well earned rest at night. It was a good life and we were a happy lot. This wasn't just the only life we knew, it was the only life I could ever imagine and I would have fought hand and nail to live it.

We lost my father the year I turned twelve to a heart attack during a drove, a harsh lesson - death touches everyone in this tough but beautiful land, no matter how strong they appear.

It was a terrible loss to all of us. My father could be a hard man, but he was also quick with a laugh and he loved my Mum with a fierce passion I was too young to fully understand. Though not every one always agreed with Benjamin McNeil, to a man they all respected him and his passing was felt throughout a good portion of the Northern Territories.

Archie and I took over full management of the station with Kim coming up quick as a junior stockman. We faced some real tough challenges as we worked to find our footing as men those first few years with out our father. The days were long and the work was hard and we had to finish a lot of growing up in a short time. Mistakes were made that cost us dearly and sometimes we were just plain unlucky. There were a few years that we barely scraped by, but we had each other and we loved the work and a new day was always just over the horizon.

I was fourteen the first time Mr. Carney came from Darwin to call on Mum. His name was Leslie, but everyone called him "King" on account of the fact that he owned a good portion of the stations in the Northern Territory. Those he didn't own, he was keen on buying up and the moment I saw him drinking tea on our porch with my mother, I knew why he'd come.

"Gentlemen, " he greeted us with a nod and without getting up.

"Boys, get washed up," Mum told us. "Mr. Carney will be joining us for supper."

My brothers moved off to wash – I think Kim even tipped his hat to the man, but I held my feet – horrified to think that my mother might ever consider selling our land to this man.

"Raker, please…" My mother looked embarrassed at my lack of manners.

"Mum, you can't be thinking –"

"Go on and wash up like your Mother says, son." King Carney favoured me with a smile meant to soothe, but he was patronising me and we both knew it. "There'll be plenty of time to discuss business later."

Mum's eyes implored me to do as I was told, and there was nothing for it in that moment except to do as she'd asked, so I went. But as I was upstairs putting on my best shirt and buttoning it up to an uncomfortable height, I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

"My boys work hard…"

"Yes, Mrs. McNeil, but children can't make a success of a place this size. You need protection. Assurances. The safety that only a large cattle company can provide…"

I couldn't catch it all, but I'd heard enough.

It damn well made my blood boil to hear him speaking to her that way, like the crocodile in that story my Da used to read us at night, trying to lure the young elephant to the water's edge.

"We can't let her sell to Carney," I rallied my brothers. "This is our land. We own it. He hasn't worked it and he doesn't deserve a stake in it."

Despite Carney's promise, there was no more talk of business that night. Instead he tried to turn our heads with stories of life in Darwin. Electricity was being put in. Those new motorcars were getting popular, though to my mind would never replace the reliability of a good horse. He even went so far as to offer Archie the opportunity to escort his daughter to the upcoming church social, though everyone knew she was still too young to be properly courted.

And all of it done with a smile so charming he might've sold fire to the Devil himself.

He left after supper; off to visit another of his properties and we spent the next evening begging Mum not to sell even a share of our land to him. In the end she agreed, but I knew that from then on we'd have to be ever watchful of Mr. Carney and his promises.

All the same, two years later Archie began courting the second oldest of the Carney girls, Cathy.

They met during one of our regular supply trips into town and with Mr. Carney's blessings but under Mrs. Carney's watchful eye, the two began to spend time together.

I was certain Carney's willingness to let Archie court his daughter had more to do with the fact that we were amongst the few families who still hadn't sold to him and less to do with a plan for her happiness, but they were a bang up couple all the same.

To my great surprise and despite all advantages, Cath Carney was a real treat – easy on the eyes and good-natured, too. Archie had been a serious boy; always reading until the wick burnt down at night, his mind keen on business every moment he was in the saddle. But Cath had a way of bringing him out of himself and making him laugh. She made him a better man and I had never seen my brother so happy.

Of course, I soon had my own head turned by a pretty face.

A few months after Archie announced his plan to marry Cathy, I met Magarri. It wasn't uncommon to hire experienced men to help muster or for a drove team and he came highly recommended. He was a talented stockman, excellent with the cattle, quick to see what needed to be done and get to it without needing to be told. A man like that was worth his weight in gold and I was quick to let him know he'd always have a place with us on our team.

Though he was closer in age to Archie, it didn't take more than a season for mutual respect to grow into a full-blown friendship, and after the muster, I took a detour on the way home and met his family. I had always felt at home with the Aboriginal people, but I was particularly taken with his sister.

The Yolngu laws dictated avoidance between brother and sister, but Magarri's young cousin Goolajballong was only too happy to introduce us.

"Darika, come meet him, this the drover I been telling you about," Goolaj called her over with a wave.

She was beautiful! Long lashes framed brown eyes flecked honey gold. Her bright smile pushed dimples deep into her cheeks and lit up her whole face. Darika moved with a lithe grace that reminded me of water flowing over smooth river rocks. The sound of her laugh lifted my heart and made any cares I may have had seem far, far away.

And though I'd seen a lot of excitement in my young life, I'd never felt more alive than when I was with her.

I began spending every moment I could with Darika. If I was the stubborn Boab tree, she was the wind that bent me and the rain that nourished my roots. My day began in her eyes and set in her smile.

I can still remember the day I asked Magarri if he'd allow me to court her. He gave me a funny look and asked if I knew what I was doing. Understandably protective of his kin, I reckoned he wanted to make sure I wasn't looking to take advantage of Darika as some other white fellas might try to do, so I assured him of my intentions and told him that I knew what I was doing.

In retrospect, she wasn't the only one Magarri was looking to protect.

I was young and sure of myself and, though I knew my work and the land, I didn't yet have a solid understanding of the ways of the world. It wasn't until later that I understood just how difficult and complicated things could get, but by then it was too late and I was already deeply in love with Darika.

Our relationship was unconventional at best, forbidden by law at worst.

Sure, young stockmen like Neil Fletcher from neighbouring Faraway Downs and others who thought like him often took liberties with the local Aboriginal girls. Some were treated as "drover's boys" – young women who could work the cattle by day and keep the white stockmen warm at night. Others simply joined the women who worked at the stations or town in their beds at night, regardless of their lack of welcome. But they'd never in their wildest dreams consider these women equal or seek to make wives of them.

Darika was herself troubled by the fact that she had been promised to marry a lad from another tribe, and at first her family also resisted our relationship. Despite the fact that our feelings for one another were mutual and quickly deepened, it seemed that we couldn't get a break from any side.

And so, where soon everyone in town knew of Archie's intentions to marry one of the Carney girls and even Kim was known to be courting one of the Fletcher girls, my heart lived in a secret place. A place where Darika and I could be together, away from the eyes of those who wouldn't understand that our love was just as real and just as strong as any.

"Come to town with me next week," Archie would say. "The ladies auxiliary is having a dance and Cathy has plenty of friends who want to meet you." This was typical of many invitations that I refused.

"Maybe Raker already has a girl," Kim would pipe up each time, making me grit my teeth behind my smile.

"Mind yourself," I'd warn him, "or I'll tell Louella Fletcher you've got a poor habit of not washing up after you use the dunny."

It wasn't true, but it had the desired affect. By then Mum would be so distracted trying to keep us from killing each other that the subject would be forgotten once peace was established, but more than once she spoke of how we'd soon marry up and leave her behind.

I had no intention of leaving her or Dreamingtime Station. Instead I dreamt of taking Darika as my bride and bringing her home to live as my wife.

Sure, it would take some doing, but this was a new country, a new century and we could see the signs of progress all around us. Was it too much to believe that in my own time a man would be free to love as he chose?

It didn't take long for my curious older brother to reckon something was up and one evening he slipped off and followed me when I stole away for one of my visits to the Yolngu camp.

Though Archie had grown up playing with the local children like the rest of us, he now had his reputation with the Carneys to think of and he was horrified to find me in the arms of an Aboriginal girl. King Carney would never let him marry his daughter if one of the McNeil brothers was found "cavorting about with the blacks."

To keep him from causing a scene in the camp, we took a walk. I was young and enough of an idealist to think that a man in love might understand that a heart knows no boundaries. I hoped against hope that the depth of his affection for Cathy might help him to understand mine for Darika.

"We can't always choose who we love," I told him. "We can only choose to follow our hearts."

"You can't be serious," he stopped and eyed me in disbelief. "Are you actually thinking you can make a go of it with a black?"

_"Aboriginal,"_ I corrected him gently. "Look, Arch, we've grown up with the Aborigines, we've worked with them, played with them... Is it really so strange to think I might fall in love?"

"You're joking," he shook his head, whether in disgust or denial, I couldn't tell in the moonlight. "Raker, do you honestly believe you've fallen in love with a _boong?"_

That slur was enough for me to lose my hope of finding any sort of understanding in my brother's heart. I'd always had a quick temper and in that moment it flared, blinding me as I swung at him, yet my knuckles connected squarely with the side of his face and he reeled, losing his balance to sit down hard.

He sat there a moment, staring up at me in shock. Sure, we'd wrestled a bit, fought as all boys do, but I'd never struck him in anger. Not like this.

Seeing the look of surprise and loss on his face hurt me in a way I'd never felt before and I leant down to give him a hand up.

Instead of letting me reach out to him, he pulled hard, yanking me off my feet and before long it was an all out fight, both of us wrestling in the dust, each of us trying to gain the upper hand and do our worst.

In the end, it didn't matter who won. Archie would keep my secret. Not because he understood but rather because exposing it would ruin his chances at a future with Cathy Carney.

From that point on there grew a quiet distance between the two of us, one that Mum didn't understand and Kim couldn't put a name to. It hurt me that my elder brother not only didn't understand, but also had no interest in even trying to.

Despite the fact that I couldn't take Darika into town to do any of the social things that other couples our age did our love continued to blossom and grow. If the world wouldn't have us, then we'd make our own world. We were happy when we were together. We made our own rules, spoke our own language, shared secrets and dreamt of our future together.

I loved her deeply and completely - nearly beyond reason. Had she asked for the moon, I'd have travelled to the highest peaks to capture it for her. I grew drunk on her kisses, swam in her eyes, told her every secret I'd ever had.

There's was nothing to be done for it, so I made a substantial dowry to Darika's parents; a good horse that I'd broken, some tobacco, a few chickens and a fat calf and they agreed to break tradition and allow us to be joined.

Knowing that no church would welcome our union, the ritual was carried out by one of the clan elders. It made my heart sing to see my simple ring on her finger, to finally be able to call her my own.

I had a rash hope that this ceremony, this taking of formal vows of commitment to one another would help my family to accept our relationship. After a few days spent alone together as man and wife, I kissed Darika and rode off to share my happy news with my family, promising to come back for her soon.

When I got home it seemed that there was bigger news than mine – Archie had joined up and was leaving for the Army.

Australia had been in the War for about a year now, though we rarely felt it's effects directly out at the station. Still, there was always news of some lad or another joining up and heading off to new adventures in faraway lands and a few young stockmen we knew were among those who had enlisted.

With the forming of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps our county had her first chance to fight on her own, a time for us to stand up as a new nation, no longer under Mother England's thumb, but rather fighting by her side. This was touted as not only our patriotic duty, but also a great adventure and a chance to show the world that Australia was a force to be reckoned with.

It may have been largely boys who joined up, but it was men who returned home. Men who had seen more of the world than the rest of us. Men afforded new opportunities to be more than the boys they had been. This, too, was the promise of war. And like so many who had gone before him, Archie saw this as his opportunity to prove himself.

Plans to marry Cath Carney were put on hold, with the promise of a wedding to set the town on its ear when he returned. He saw himself going from lowly station manager to proud War Hero in one easy move. All the better to become the man he believed he had to be to deserve Cathy's love. Something the stubborn drongo never understood he already had.

So I swallowed my news and we loaded up the cart and made the trek into town to see him off, Mum sitting stiff and proud on the seat with Archie and Kim while I rode alongside.

I don't know if she cried harder over Archie leaving or when I told her I'd married Darika, but things were never the same at the station from that day on.

My mother refused to accept my marriage to Darika, pointing out that it was both against the law and a sin in the eyes of the Lord. My wife would not be welcome at my Mother's table, nor was she welcome in our family's home, and nothing that I could say or do could cause her to waver in her judgement, for her judgement was backed by the laws of both God and man.

It had been my plan to take Darika to live at the out-station, but my elder brother's departure created meant a change of plan. Instead I laid claim to one of the small outbuildings. It was far enough from the main house to afford us a measure of privacy and insulate my wife from my Mother's intolerant and uncharitable manners.

I chased out the chooks and spent a week cleaning and repairing the one room shack. The old clapboard structure was weathered the same ochre as the land around it but with a new tin roof to keep the rain out during the wet, it seemed like a castle. Now Darika and I had a home of our own.

Mum never lifted a finger to help. Made no curtains, picked no flowers, brought no bread to our table, but she also didn't stop us from moving in, and I held onto the hope that she'd come around yet.

And if she didn't? Well, there was a law amongst the Aborigines whereby one was never allowed to speak to or even have direct dealings with their mother in law – a handy tradition in our case, I reckoned.

Outside the walls of our little house there was hatred and intolerance and hard times. With the rest of the world shut outside our door we continued to create a perfect world of our own and were happy, finding love and acceptance in one another's arms.

Archie's letters home were poetic in their descriptions of his new adventures. It seemed that war was an exciting sport to him and his mates, battles were looked forward to and an honour to fight. If there were losses, he rarely mentioned them, preferring instead to regale us with stories of new adventures in far off lands like England and France.

At home I still struggled to be seen as a man. Though not yet eighteen, I had taken over full management of the main station with Kim as my lead stockman and Magarri in charge of everything else. I had the respect of my peers and the men who worked for us, but I was a bit of a social unknown, and at times I had to put added effort into being taken seriously in the new duty of broker that I assumed after Archie left.

I hated leaving Darika at home to go to town. But she insisted that Darwin held nothing for her that I wouldn't already think to bring home. Truth was she understood the trouble we could get into being seen together and she was more graceful about it than I was. Sure, the local constable might look the other way if a man was caught in bed with a black woman, but they'd lock you up if you tried to marry her. Thus far, we'd been lucky but where my dreams were of a world where people were free to love who they wanted, hers were simply of us not getting caught.

Time went on and letters from Archie became less frequent. There were fewer familiar faces in town and more and more often there was news of local lads I knew joining up. The call for patriotism was strong. I recall one trip to town during which it seemed every available wall was coloured by posted bills urging men like me to "Fight for Australia" and "Help our Men in the Trenches."

One young soldier in khakis who had a hat with a great feather and chinstrap saw me looking at the poster and smiled. "Joining up?"

"Not today," I shook my head with a grin. He was a few years older than me, though a good head shorter.

"Eighteen?" he asked, looking me up and down.

"Next month."

"Charlie Kayce," he held out his hand and I shook it. "We could use a strong lad like you."

"Raker McNeil," I introduced myself. I felt flattered by the way he sized me up. He spoke to me like a man – an equal.

"Do you ride, Raker?"

"Like I was born in the saddle. But – "

"Well, then, you should consider the Light Horse Brigade." He leant forward as if speaking to an intimate. "We need all the men we can get if we're to push back the Turks and show the Germans their place, mate." He smiled and stepped back. "A good man on horseback could make all the difference to his brothers in the field."

It was like he could read my thoughts at that moment as I pictured Archie deep in a trench, drawing his sights on the enemy, making us proud as he fought for our country. For the first time I realised that my brother was doing what I myself had more than once vowed to do - fighting for our land.

I accepted Charlie's invitation to join him and his mates at the pub for a beer. These young men were much like me, but they had something I didn't. A sense of destiny and a plan of action. With innocent idealism shining in their bright young eyes, they were setting out not just to protect our home but also to help bolster our newly established cultural pride.

These men were Australians through and through - cheerful in the face of adversity, friendly to a fault, willing to take on any challenge with pluck and an adventurer's ingenuity. Qualities borne of men whose families had forged a life from a sometimes rough and unforgiving environment. These were the men who would shape Australia's future.

Such thoughts lay heavy on my mind and mingled with images from my brother's letters as I made my way home. While other lads joined up for great adventures in faraway lands, I was being tempted by a need to make a difference, to help shape our great country.

My dreams became restless, and thoughts of the war were never far from my mind. It wasn't long before Darika noticed the change in me.

I hated the way her pretty brow would furrow as she stroked my face, trying to bring a smile to my lips as we lay together in our bed. So many times she would ask what troubled me, beg me to share my thoughts with her, but for as long as I could manage, I simply smiled and kissed her and told her nothing could be ever be wrong as long as she was by my side.

But Darika knew I was keeping things from her, my thoughts now often far away from the perfect safety of our little house. And with each letter Archie sent home, with every news report from the Allied front, I grew a little more restless, until finally, at her gentle urging, I confessed what lay so heavily upon my conscience to my wife.

"I feel like I should be there," I told her and my heart wrenched as she smiled lovingly at me. "That I should go and fight to make a difference.... But I could never leave you, Darika. I could never leave what we have."

Her face was full of understanding and her voice had the soft cadence of rain falling on tall trees. She understood that men sometimes had to risk losing themselves to find themselves. "What does your dreaming tell you?"

I thought long and hard about the past few months of restless dreams, of my waking thoughts and of doing what was right. My desire to serve my country – _our_ country. I took a deep breath and met her warm, dark eyes. "My dreams tell me to go."

"Then you must go." She slid onto my lap with a smile, wrapping her arms around me. I could feel her heart beating near my own as she lay her head on my shoulder.

It was decided that simply. Although it broke my heart to leave her, I knew that I had to do what was right.

The next day I gave my family the news and soon had Magarri's promise to watch over Darika for me while I was gone. A fortnight later I prepared to leave home.

I will always remember the last night that I spent in Darika's arms. I couldn't get enough of her, greedily seeking to steal a sufficient number of kisses to sustain me over the long months away from her lips, hungry to feel her body welcome me again and again until we were both too exhausted to move.

Curled around her after our love making, I whispered my dreams to her, painting pictures of the world I hoped we would share when I returned - a world where Australia was a changed place and we could be free to show our love without fear or repercussion.

Darika whispered to me that she wanted babies and I promised her a whole brood of children, more than she could count. She laughed and kissed me, but I saw worry in her face, too. Worry that I did my best to kiss away as I promised again and again to return to her as quickly as I was able.

The next morning I lingered in bed with her for as long as I dared, kissing her, telling her again and again how much I loved her, promising to come home to her safe and sound.

If she cried when I left, she didn't show me her tears. Instead she sent me off with a brave smile and a kiss and told me to always listen to my dreaming.

As I rode off with Kim in our wagon, I remember her standing there in the sun in my favourite dress, her face full of proud love as she waved her last goodbye to me.

From there, everything seemed to happen quickly. I was inducted quickly and soon steamed off to train for battle in faraway lands.

_**To be continued…**_


	2. Chapter 2

The Drover Tells His Story

Part Two

From there, everything seemed to happen quickly. I was inducted and then straightaway steamed off to train for battle in faraway lands.

My new mates and I learnt how to use heavy hand-cranked Gatling guns and the new belt-fed automatic machine guns. Each week more soldiers arrived until there were so many of us that we appeared to be the majority population and khaki, like the constant dust of the city streets, was the colour of the day.

Training seemed almost a lark - young men playing at war, different regiments assigned as attacker and defender each round, with wounded taking the luck of the draw as they would be dragged back to base rather than having to haul back in the heat under their own power. We rode and we ran and we practised with the automatic weapons that seemed sure to turn the tide and win us the war. We drilled up and down until our feet were numb - an exercise designed to knock the rebel out of us and teach us to follow orders without question.

With only a short time spent to learn fighting skills and adapt to the new environment, we headed off to Helles. Now I was in the thick of it and things turned deadly serious.

I had a keen eye and dead-on aim, but I'd never killed anything but my own tucker. What had been touted as an adventure or as a bit of sport became something else entirely if you stopped to think about the fact that you were killing men who were much like yourself. So instead we thought about how we were defending our brothers and securing the future of our homes and families.

I saw terrible things in what came to be called The Great War. Acts of stupidity and injustice that sometimes bordered on the near criminal. Simple mistakes and lapses in judgement that cost hundreds of lives in one go. Wave upon wave of brave men sent to their death due to bad judgement, poor communications or simply to prove a point. From the shores of the newly named ANZAC Cove to the hills above Sulva Bay, boys became men overnight and all too often passed on to early graves before ever truly experiencing manhood.

Along the way, I'd ask after Archie. Last I'd heard his battalion was fighting on the Western Front in Vermelles. This part of France had been overtaken by the Germans the year before and the Allies made repeated efforts to regain possession.

I wondered if the war had changed Archie as it was changing so many young men around me. I looked forward to the day we'd both return home and I would celebrate his wedding to Cathy. In the light of so many terrible losses, I had forgiven him our fight and held out hope that he would feel the same when we met again.

I watched jealously as my mates received letters and packages from home. At last a letter arrived addressed to me in my mother's hand. One page in her tidy, perfectly formed script telling me that Darika had "gone home to live with the other blacks" and that soon after I'd left, Kim had lied about his age and joined up, too.

I missed my wife terribly. There wasn't a moment of the day, marching, digging trenches, eating or fighting that she was far from my mind and heart. And a night didn't pass where I wasn't with her in my dreams. As she could neither read nor write and neither could Magarri, I held onto this tiny bit of news from home like a dog guards a bone. It did my lonely heart good to know that in my absence she was back with her family, safe and surrounded by those she loved.

Mixed with my relief was worry for Kim's well being. I wondered where he was and how he was bearing up under the hardships of service.

Now I had two brothers to worry about, and as I huddled in the trenches of Gallipoli at night, I understood why I had even more reasons to be concerned. Kim's departure was foolish in so many ways - the least of which was that it left the station in our Mother's hands. Sure, she had Magarri and the other stockmen to do the work, but I feared that this would present an opportunity that King Carney would be unlikely to resist.

On August 5th of 1915 I was called into the commander's quarters and informed that my brother Archibald Walter McNeil had fallen in battle. I was assured that he had died a hero, proudly fighting for his country, but that did little to offset my sense of loss.

My brother Archie would not return home. He would not marry Cath Carney. He would not ride out over the hills overlooking our home. He would not smile at me in that patient way he had that told me that despite all of my larking about he trusted me. He would never shake my hand and he would never know that I had forgiven him.

.

Like most of the "diggers" sent to fight this war, I had dug my share of trenches. But we also dug the graves where my mates and my countrymen were laid to rest three by three, covered lightly in earth as our chaplain read from his Bible. I hoped that someone who had known and liked Archie stood by with bowed head as the right passages were read in a voice that was soft but insistent enough to be heard over the incessant chattering of machine guns and the sharp bark of rifles.

Despite the efforts of every member of the Allied force, we had little to show for our losses. We were hugely outnumbered by the Turks and repeated tries to take Krithia had been thwarted. Strong offensives late that same month failed to unite the two fronts - ANZAC and Sulva. A final bid to take Sari Bair Heights signaled our last real effort to overtake the peninsula and was likewise a terrible failure.

.

Where I had come eager to serve my country, I was now exhausted, disillusioned and ready to return home.

Nevermind the songs of the day telling us that we were heroes. Most of what we did we did because there was nothing else for it. You simply didn't want to let your mates down.

Late November brought a three-day rainstorm that flooded the trenches, creating more losses. In early December the skies opened up and let loose with a blizzard. Most of us had little experience with snow and few had ever witnessed it on this level. Unprepared for the heavy weather we lost more men to exposure. It was as if God himself had given up on us and was looking to drive us out of this unwelcoming land.

The one highlight of the campaign for me was the friendship I forged with a young British officer – Col. Emmett Dutton. We were close in age and despite his being a city lad, we got on like a house afire. It was Dutton who gave me the news that we would soon be evacuating Gallipoli, but that wasn't the only news he'd come to bring me that night.

It was also Dutton who had the sad honour of telling me that Kim had gone down in battle. The Germans had attacked and my brother's horse had fallen atop him, leaving him wounded and hopelessly pinned as his battalion was overrun.

The news was delivered in a low voice that shook with emotion and was followed by a full flask. A good friend, Emmett turned away as I shed tears for my youngest brother, and I never felt that he looked down on me for my weakness in that moment.

When I'd regained my composure he sat down beside me, back to the dirt wall of the trench and we shared his flask.

I'd been in the service for over a year now and the frustration and ever mounting losses were becoming greater than I could bear. I'd lost my brothers, my idealism, my innocence, and my taste for the 'adventure' of war. And while we might keep the Germans and the Turks from overrunning England, Australia and the rest of the civilised world, I no longer had any hope that our actions would make any real strides towards bringing the World in general - let alone the world at home - into better harmony.

The best I could hope for was to make it home alive to spend the rest of my days working the station and my nights making Darika happy. If I could just do that, well, that would be enough.

"I'm done with it, Emmett," I told my friend.

"Done with it?" he echoed, taking a draught from the flask before passing it back.

"Done like the dog's tucker." I saluted my announcement with his flask before swallowing a healthy portion of my own. "I've had enough of war. More than my share, in fact."

He thought on this a long while. In truth, I didn't really expect him to understand. He was an officer, a career man. He'd grown to manhood in the service and, the good Lord willing, he'd grow old in the service, too. And though he weighed my words as a friend, he answered as an officer.

.

"You're a good man, Raker. And a good soldier." He waved away the flask, indicating that I should finish the last of the liquor it held. "You'll pull through. Nothing else for it."

I couldn't fault him for his words. In that moment, he gave me what he thought I needed, soldier to soldier, man to man.

It wasn't until years later that Emmett told me just how badly my words had shaken his own faith that night. So perhaps he'd spoken them for himself, too.

A few days later, less than a week before Christmas, we quietly left the shores of ANZAC Bay.

This was accomplished in part thanks to the ingenuity of some of our own Australian lads who cleverly improvised a self firing system involving tin pans of water that triggered rifles to fire as we slipped away. The Turks were fooled into thinking that we were still pinned down in the trenches. Full withdrawal without one Allied casualty – reason enough to celebrate, even without the holiday.

Emmett and I were on the same evacuation boat and though we would meet again later in life that was the last I saw of him during my term of service.

I did not, however, get my wish to return home, and was instead reunited with my mount when the ANZAC regrouped in Egypt. Soon after, the light horsemen were formed into new divisions and sent of to the Sanai and Palestine where our operations were far more successful.

I finally returned home 1916, nearly two full years after leaving.

I was no longer the boy who had gone to war. I was a man now and had the scars to prove it. I had gone on my own version of Walkabout and found my way home to my people. But I was a broken man, for I had lost my brothers along with my idealism, and in the end, our losses seemed greater than any victory the Allies might claim.

I remember stepping off the boat in Darwin. It was one of those amazingly bright days that come just after the wet. The sun sparkled on the water like diamonds and everything around me seemed to have been painted in rich watercolours. It was a beautiful day.

I had wired to my Mother that I was coming home, but had been on the move since and had no expectation of a reply. I wasn't surprised when there was no one to greet me at the dock, understanding how difficult it would be for her to spare someone to meet me and bring me back to the station.

No matter, it would be easy enough for me to make my own way. And I had a few things to attend to in town before I would be ready to head home.

I'd sent a portion of my soldier's pay home to help Mum keep up the station and still managed to save up a nice nest egg for Darika and myself, too.

Done with war and finally home, I'd no intention of wearing my uniform a day longer than needed. Digging ditches and carrying heavy guns had broadened my back to where my old togs were unlikely to fit. So, I made my first stop the mercantile to buy a few changes of clothing and some new boots.

With my khakis handed off, I added my purchases to my duffel, already packed with a pretty dress I'd bought for Darika in Egypt and a few other souvenirs I'd picked up for her during my travels.

My next order of business would be to drop round the pub to dampen my whistler and see who was around that I might hitch a ride out of town with.

Just my luck that the first face to recognise mine would be that of Neil Fletcher.

I ordered a drink, careful not to look in his direction, putting my back to him and hoping that he'd take no notice of me.

Never one to put another's needs before his own, Fletcher had declined to join up and serve Australia.

Instead he'd stayed home picking up where his father had left off taking care of Faraway Downs. Though it had been his family's own station, it now belonged to the Ashleys of London, the patriarch of which had purchased it chock a block from old man Fletcher during lean times.

As Australia was considered a harsh and wild land, the new owners preferred to stay at home in London, which gave Neil the run of the land. To see him strut about town hiring men and making deals, you'd think he still owned it himself.

"Oi, McNeil, back from the war, eh?" He called out despite my efforts to ignore him. "At least one of ya's made it back home."

The man sitting with him barked out a surprised laugh that choked off into a cough when I rounded in their direction. "Don't." I leveled a finger in Fletcher's direction. Despite my joy at being home, I was in no mood for Fletcher's cheek. "Not another bloody word out of you."

Neil simply smiled his oily, snake-like smile. "Guess he hasn't heard the news yet." This announcement was made loudly and generally to every man at the bar.

Sipping my drink through gritted teeth I turned away and fought with myself not to take the bait.

"You've got no home to go to, Sunshine," his smile became a sneer. "King Carney owns Dreamingtime Station now." Fletcher continued, tone rich with dark glee. "Maybe he'll rename it. Make it _Carney_-time Station, eh?"

I lost, but so did Fletcher, who found himself on his back on the rough plank floor before my fist had finished leaving its impression on his face.

"No fighting in here!" the barman shouted, slamming his towel down in frustration, but I was already striding out, leaving Neil Fletcher struggling to crawl away from his broken chair.

I paused to pick up my duffel, anger beating my face red. I was un-surprised when a moment later Fletcher hurtled into me, knocking us both down into the dusty street below the walk.

There we fought, no love lost between us, each seeking to pound the other to a pulp.

In the end it took two of Fletcher's men to pull me off of him, and Neil, never one to miss an opportunity, helped himself to a few free swings while they held me.

I was lucky enough to keep my teeth, as he wasn't the sort of man to risk his knuckles, but his last savage kick let me know I wouldn't be riding comfortably anytime soon.

All the same, I'd left him a gift of my own - a split lip that later healed into a scar he bore for the rest of his life, hidden behind a thin moustache.

At the water pump behind the Territories Hotel, I washed up and regrouped. If what Fletcher had said was true, then I needed a plan. A plan to get our land back.

If Mum hadn't yet spent the money Carney had given her, perhaps with it and my nest egg combined, I could buy the station back. Even if Carney kept the cattle we'd had, I could muster and break enough horses to get a plant to start the next season and while it might be rough going, at least it would be a start.

Plan firmly in mind, I brushed the dust off my trousers as best I was able, put on a fresh shirt, and took myself off to the main office of the Carney Cattle Company.

Where I'd expected to get the runaround when I asked to see the King himself, I was let in easily enough and Carney was all smiles as he greeted me.

"Raker McNeil, wonderful to see you." He came around from behind his big desk, pulling his cigar from his mouth long enough to clap me on the back like I was his own son. "Back from the War and not a day too soon."

Not a day too soon? Perhaps the sale had not yet gone through! "Mister Carney, I've come here on a matter of urgent business."

"Business can wait," he waved the word away, eyes glittering merrily as he moved to the nearby bar cart. "Allow me to welcome you back in style, son." Ice cubes clinked into cut crystal glasses. Amber fluid flowed over the tiny bergs, making the glasses immediately bead cool condensation in response to the heat. "Listen to me, you're a man now, aren't you?"

"Mister Carney..." I tried again, not wanting to let his jovial manner derail me from my purpose. "About my family's station..."

"Right, right..." He sipped his drink, setting mine down on the desk in easy reach and sat down again, tapping ash into a silver tray. "As the surviving McNeil son, you'll be wanting your share of the sale. Your Mother is a smart woman, bless her, and she drove a hard bargain. You should be quite proud. "

He dipped his pen into the inkwell on his desk, wrote out a cheque, blotted it and laid it atop an envelope he pulled from a drawer. The envelope was addressed to me in my mother's tidy hand.

"She asked me to give you this, when you came around."

I must have been staring at him like he'd grown two heads, because he frowned and sat up. "Now, listen, son. This was a square deal. My lawyers drew up the papers and everything's been properly filed. Your Mother's share..."

"Where is my Mother?" It came out a harsh whisper.

Carney's brow wrinkled in a fatherly fashion. I could almost believe in that moment that he wasn't a bad man and that he felt sorry for me. Not that I wanted his pity. "You missed her by about two weeks, son. Left just before your wire came, I'm afraid. She spent a week with my wife and family, had a good cry over your brother with my girl Cathy. You know how women are... "

He smiled sympathetically and stood, closing the distance between us, intending to bring me my drink. "And please, allow me to say how sorry I am for your loss. I liked Archie, both your brothers, they were good men, it's a terrible thing."

"Where?" Rage and loss choked my throat. That one word was all that I could manage.

He looked surprised at my question then nodded. "England, I believe." He spared a pointed glance at the letter she'd left. "I imagine it's all in the letter." He sipped his drink to give me a moment to let this last bit of news sink in before continuing on. "And I couldn't blame you for going, too. Though, if you're of a mind to stay, I know Cathy would like to see you and there'd be no lack of work for a man with your talents and experience. Why, I'd be happy to hire you myself."

I stared at him. Unable to speak. Unable to move, though every fibre of my body told me to grab my things and go.

And that was when he delivered the last blow, brightening as if he'd just come up with the most wonderful of ideas. The very thought of it glinted in the corners of his eyes as he smiled. "You know… I need someone to work Dreamingtime, son. And you'd be just the man for it - "

And so I bruised my knuckles for the second time that day.

Leslie Carney was a big man, and he would likely have given me better than he got, had his secretary not heard the scuffle and come in shouting her head off about calling for the Constable.

In the end, Carney wiped a trickle of blood from his nose and told her to calm down, that I was just upset after getting some rough news. Leave it to the King to seem unruffled and come off as much too kind to press charges against a young soldier so recently returned, battle-scarred by the Great War.

.

I was handed my cheque and my Mother's letter and shown the way out by a few of his men and that was that.

Had I been the sort of man who allowed himself the luxury of self-pity, I might have spent the rest of that afternoon and maybe even the next few days drowning my sorrows in a few bottles at the pub.

But despite Carney's generous cheque in my pocket, self-pity was an indulgence that I could ill afford.

Instead I took my money to the local bank and made short work of opening an account. Though I hated to take Carney's money, I needed it if I was to make a new life for Darika and myself.

With just enough left in my pocket to buy a decent horse and rifle and fill my saddlebags with food and water, I packed up and headed out to the Yolngu tribal lands where Magarri and his people lived.

Nearly two days ride and I was still half a day away when I came across Goolajballong hunting in the bush. At first he was just a dark line on the far horizon, easily mistaken for a gum tree in the heat waves rising from the ground. But as I drew closer, I recognised the crooked smile and tribal markings of my young friend.

"Raker! You come!" He was so excited in his greeting that he lapsed immediately into his own dialect and my unpractised ear had to work hard to make sense of what he said.

"Goolaj," I put a hand on his shoulder. "Cousin. Slow down, I can barely understand you."

With great effort he repeated what he had just said, this time in English. "Darika burn up with that no good white fella fever! Need 'em get white fella magic. Hurry!"

Each word he spoke stabbed panic deep into my heart.

Remounting quickly, I pulled him up behind me, barely giving him a chance to settle on before we were off.

Where I'd been heading in the right general direction, I now had Goolaj to guide me to the camp. As we rode, the young man explained that he had not been hunting at all. As his story went, one of the elders, Nowra had seen my coming in a dream and sent the young man to bring me to them. And while such an explanation might seem fanciful to some, it was hard to argue with the fact that finding me and bringing me back was exactly what Goolaj was doing.

Magarri was waiting for us at the edge of the camp, his proud face grave and his dark eyes more frightened than I'd ever seen them. "Darika is very sick, brother," he told me as I dismounted, handing my horse off to Goolaj to tend.

"Where is she?" I asked, dropping all formalities in my worry for my wife.

"Here." He led the way to where a shelter had been made beneath a low tree. Women sat nearby, fanning small fires where healing herbs burned, singing what I knew must be magic songs to fight the illness.

My wife lay under a light blanket, eyes closed under a sheen of sour sweat. Her skin stretched tight over her wasted body and had taken on a gray pallor. Her breathing was laboured, raspy and punctuated by deep coughs that wracked her depleted form.

Had I any doubt that she was suffering from advanced consumption, the heat of her skin and the swelling about her neck confirmed my worst fears. There was dried saliva tinted with blood on her lips – lips that had once so tenderly kissed my own – and now she was too weak to even lift a hand to wipe the offending stains away.

"Darika," I whispered, suddenly feeling young and scared. "I'm here, darling, I'm home."

She stirred in her fever dream and I thought that she had heard me, had recognised the sound of my voice. But though her eyes fluttered and opened, they did not focus on me.

It broke my heart to see her like that, wasting away from fever and disease and I worked to stop the sob that tried to rise in my throat, folding my lips hard and flat to keep it from escaping.

Magarri tried to draw me away. "Let the women tend to her."

"No!" I shouted, startling the women as I shook him off. "Nowra said she needs white fella magic." My mind raced again over what Goolaj had told me, working to understand what it was that I needed to do to save my wife. Nowra was right. If consumption was a white man's disease, then Darika needed white man's medicine to save her.

"Magarri," I turned to him. "I need a fresh horse. And water." When he didn't immediately move I called to Goolaj. "Cousin! Put my saddle on Magarri's horse, and get my bags. Quickly!"

The young man hurried to do as I'd asked, but Magarri planted himself in front of me. "What you gonna to do?" he asked.

"I'm going to do the only thing I can - take her to Darwin," I explained as I pushed past him to help Goolaj ready the fresh horse.

"No white fella doctor gonna help my sister," he shook his head with great sadness. He looked tired. Clearly this idea had already been considered and abandoned.

"They have to," I insisted stubbornly, slipping the bridle over my mount's head. "If they don't she'll die." I fixed him with my most determined gaze and when he opened his mouth next, it wasn't to argue.

"Okay, brother. Then I come with you."

Magarri's tone was steady and I knew that he would not be dissuaded. I would not be alone in this. Darika was my wife but she was also Magarri's sister, and caught up as I was in my own concerns, I had nearly forgotten that fact.

He was more than a friend, he was my family, and together we would try to save Darika's life, even if we had to break every law that stood in our way.

It didn't take us long to gather what supplies we could. The night was dark and cool and the dingoes lent their melancholy voices to the women's songs as I scooped Darika into my arms to carry her to town.

She was burning with fever and each breath seemed to require a greater effort than the last. We knew that time was critical now and risked riding through the night, past dawn and into the next day.

I was half asleep in the saddle, my wife limp in my arms as we crested the hills over Darwin. Magarri, struggling against his own exhaustion grunted and called my name to awaken me as we neared the edge of town and I dug my heels into the side of my weary mount to urge her forward towards the tiny hospital at the far end.

The long low single storied building sat in a small complex just off the beach. With palm trees swaying in the afternoon breeze blowing in off the ocean and nurses in crisp white uniforms and smart caps bustling industriously as they saw to their patients, it seemed a beacon of hope.

One of these nurses, a middle aged matron, hurried to greet us as we approached. "Who have we got here, love?" she asked as I slipped carefully from my saddle, balancing Darika in my arms.

"She's my wife," I quickly explained. "I think its TB."

"Here now," the woman soothed in a kindly tone, motioning for Magarri to remain outside with our horses. "Bring her inside and let's have a look."

I carried Darika inside, relieved as we were joined in the surgery by the doctor. He was an older man, tall, with white hair and wire spectacles that lent him an air of attentive wisdom.

I set my wife down and pulled away the damp blanket that had shielded her during our long journey, stepping back so that they could examine her.

I was expecting the doctor to quickly assess her condition and begin treatment and so I was caught completely off-guard by what happened next.

"Out!" the doctor barked, pointing to the door. "We don't treat blacks."

"Please." My voice was hoarse with exhaustion and grief. "She's dying, please, she needs your help."

"No boongs." The man insisted, making it clear that he had no intention of helping us. "Get out of my surgery and take her with you before she infects my patients." He was angry now, voice rising in volume with each word. "Or so help me God, I will have you both removed."

I turned to the kindly nurse, seeking her help, but the woman would no longer meet my eyes.

And so I did the only thing I could. I scooped up my dying wife, cradling her to me as I carried her home.

Both Magarri and I were beyond exhaustion when he insisted that we make camp to rest. I wanted to push on, we were less than a day's ride from the camp and I wanted to take Darika home, to be with her people - the only people I now had left. But the horses needed water and rest and so did we, and I had no choice but to give in to his demand.

That night my wife passed away in my arms, slipping off quietly to a place where I could not follow.

As heartbroken as I was, at least she had found an end to her suffering.

I'm not ashamed to say that I sat by her body and cried until the pink fingers of dawn painted the stars from the night sky. Magarri left for the Yolngu camp soon after, instructing me to keep the fire burning and to stay with her, that he would bring their people.

For all that I had seen of the world and all of the time I had spent with the Yolngu people, I had little idea of their rituals concerning death. When Magarri returned with their family that evening, I was quickly immersed in their tribal rites.

The first thing that I learnt was that I must never again speak my wife's name. A tall order when all I wanted to do was call her back to me, but it was made clear that this was very important, lest she follow the sound and become lost on her way to the next world.

We moved from the place of her death to make a ceremonial camp a short distance away and the men used branches and blankets to create a shaded area off to one side. The women were forbidden to enter this area, but they had rituals of their own to attend to and their cries and wailing echoed through the dark night while the men began the work of hollowing out a tree trunk for my wife's remains. Messengers were dispatched to alert my wife's clan members far and wide and within days our tiny camp had trebled in size.

A traditional yingapungapu was dug into the ground at it was around this sacred sand sculpture that the ritual songs and dances were performed to the accompaniment of clap-sticks and didgeridoo.

Meanwhile, in the men's area, shielded from public view, I sat and watched, numb with grief as male members of my wife's family decorated the hollowed tree trunk with clan symbols and intricate designs representing the land, sea and rocks of Arnhem land.

Throughout the days and nights that followed the ritual ceremonies continued. By tradition of our marriage, her family was my family and her clans-people welcomed me, sharing my grief but also sharing with me the stories of her life. At times I heard and understood the things they told me, but there were many, many times that their words could not reach through the haze of my loss and I merely sat and watched their lips move, making sounds that I lacked the wherewithal to make sense of.

Many days later, when the burial rituals had been completed and the visiting kin had returned to their homes, I travelled with Magarri and the rest of his family back to the main camp. Here I spent my days and nights beside a campfire fed by Goolaj and Magarri, not caring enough to eat, too devastated to move.

I was not yet twenty-one and had lost every thing and every one truly important to me. With my wife's passing, I felt that I no longer had reason to live and so I lay by the fire and waited to die so that I might join her in the world beyond.

For a long time Magarri simply let me be, but after a few weeks of this, I was beginning to waste away and my brother could no longer sit by and watch it happen.

That night when he came to see me, he did not simply feed the fire and entreat me to eat something or at least drink some water. On this night he settled down onto the ground beside me, hands resting lightly on his knees.

For a long while he sat there without speaking and I became aware of the sounds of the night around us; the crackling of the fire, the hooting of a night bird high in the trees, the lonely cries of a dingo like a sad spirit lost in the bush. And when Magarri began to softly speak, I found myself reaching for this sound, too.

"My sister loved you and she would not want you to die before your time," he began. For a long time he spoke to me in quiet measured tones, sharing with me the things that he had learnt about birth and life and death. He explained to me that death was a part of the natural balance of life and that young boys must let their childish ways die so that they can be reborn as men. The Yolngu had rituals and ceremonies to help boys pass into manhood. "White fella has no ceremony, no way of knowing when he become a man." He fell silent again and the night seemed hushed around us.

"There is one more tradition to share with you." From his pocket Magarri pulled a dark string that looked to be woven of hair, ends braided to form a circle. "Her spirit has moved on to the afterlife, brother, but your wife will always be with you," he explained as he placed it around my neck. "Honour her life by living your story well."

Leaving me to my thoughts but unwilling to leave me alone, Magarri stretched out by the fire and slept, his soft snores keeping me company as the fire burned low.

When the sun rose on the new day, though weak, I rose with it.

In the night, I had had contemplated the life behind me and found the strength to embrace the one ahead. The young man that I had been had died with the passing of my wife and I would no longer answer to his name.

Magarri had taught me well. A man was measured by his actions, from the dreams he dreamt and the story that he lived…

And so, from that day on, I was known simply as The Drover.


End file.
